


The Alligator In The Room

by louisinyellow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (I'm writing angst in the sake of my angst-loving girlfriend), 70's Music, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Because they are teachers, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inspired by Music, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Music, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9590132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisinyellow/pseuds/louisinyellow
Summary: The issue was a miniature-sized man that offered him cold, sweetened milk for the large mug of steaming, black coffee that Liam had passed him as soon as he had entered the office this morning. Then, proceeded to circle a devious hand around his tense bicep, and lean in to mumble; ‘Plain black coffee is for the sleepless and the miserable- Are you miserable, perhaps, Harry?’Harry’s mouth dried, visibly, and he simply shook his head in response- He is sad, and a bit tired, from time to time, but never miserable- then proceeded to pour a small bit of cold milk in his rim-filled mug, careless for the droplets of hot coffee that dripped down on both the tiled floor and the leather of his worn shoes.When he, then, pointed out that Louis’ mug was seeping tar-looking coffee, a rather gross shade of black and steaming concernedly much, he plainly flashed him a tight smile and shrugged-Or; The high school teachers!AU that, clearly, nobody asked about, yet, Harry is a young, inexperienced music teacher and Louis is the walking destruction of plain and uneventful, working full-time as a fussy, obnoxious drama teacher. Uncontrollable anxiety ruins Harry's life, and internalized homophobia, Louis'.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cupcabriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupcabriel/gifts).



> So! Hello, I'm glad you choose to read my fic. I'm still pretty nervous about posting a piece of my writing for the very first time. I'm doing this in the sake of h&l, but also my lovely spouse Elisa! This is lightly inspired by Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here and The Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers, and there are a few references to a few tracks included so feel free to listen to those simultaneously.
> 
> I do not own the characters, definitely and not, and this is a work of pure fiction. Any errors are mine, since English is not my native language. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment, and to find me on tumblr (louisandharryfic)!
> 
> Alright, that's that. I hope you like this.

Harry’s eyes remain wide, bulged in anxiousness and mainly something he can’t seem to brush off, entirely. The worn leather of the steering wheel feels awfully gross and damp from the sweat his palms seem to drip.

He is pretty sure about the fact that he is currently having a moment of periodic amnesia, stubborn gaze pinned onto nothingness as he grips around the solidity of the wheel, for his dear life.

The school’s small parking area is nearly empty- _and that’s a good sign_ , he struggles to remind himself as he hastily wipes the clamminess of his palms across the rough denim of his jeans. He has arrived on his first day at work fairly early, and something a responsible, fully-grown adult would have done in Harry’s shoes is use the handful of extra time to get to know his co-workers, even leisurely stroll around the building.

But, he is far from that- Just last night he attempted to isolate himself from this newly found reality. The reality which included a quite intimidating career as a teacher, which would start in less than ten hours. He stubbornly refused to believe he had reached the age where the adolescence of Cheshire can refer to him as ‘Sir’, officially.

_He was basically a good handful of years away from occasional erectile dysfunction, and watching The Golden Girls while drinking fine white wine-_

_Fucking Hell_ , Harry thinks and harshly pulls a trembling hand through his tangled curls, feeling himself drag his own sake into a puddle of existential crisis, the most inappropriate moment imaginable.

Suddenly, the sound of obnoxious laughter, that makes his car nearly vibrate (in fear, he adds), shakes him out of _it_ \- whatever _that_ was- Head shooting up to watch a large group of teenagers pacing down the parking lot.

Decisively, he shuffles around the driver’s seat, safety belt yet fastened as he struggles to reach for his backpack, stray strands of curls falling into his face- And then as he finds himself obscenely bent over the controller, a hesitant knuckle seems to tap onto the window.

 _Shit_. His heart is pounding relentlessly as he falls back onto the seat, lacking each bit of grace as he did, now facing the man who seemed to have lowered his gaze to meet Harry’s, from where he still sat- Not bothered by the fact that he seems utterly and completely unaware of social etiquette at that moment.

“Hi- _Hey_! Harry Styles,” He squirms as he slams the door shut a little too harshly, the thudding noise making the scattered students gaze at his direction rather curiously. Although, the middle-aged, yet quite fit man, seemed clearly indifferent, genuine grin plastered on his bearded face- Harry could tell a kindhearted man out of their tolerance of his own lack of grace, and Liam Payne was definitely one kind-hearted bastard.

“I was expecting you, Harry- I’m Liam Payne.” Harry nods to every single word. “Well, you can just use _Liam_.” _Liam_ started small talk, introducing himself for the sixth time, in the past three days- Harry can’t quite distinguish the early stages of Alzheimer from what seems to be simply Liam’s antics.

And then they start their short, talk-filled walk to the large front entrance, a few students already hustling down the wide corridors, chattering away quietly, and immediately plastering their bodies to the lockers at the two teacher’s presence. The tiles are white, _and_ a polished black, _and_ the metal of the rusty lockers painted a dreary violet- _It’d an odd combination_ , Harry thinks to himself with a furrow of his eyebrows.

“You’re the youngest here yet, you know. ‘Kids love the youngest ones.” Liam is quick to inform him, lips tugging in a mischievous grin and Harry’s back reflexively breaks in cold sweat at the subtle reminder.

“I’m aware. A bit frightened, though.” He admitted hesitantly and tightens his hold around the strap of his cherry red backpack. His posture tensing immediately as he caught a group of students dressed in the assigned navy blue uniform, gazing down at him in a threatening manner.

“Don’t worry, _mate_ \- They won’t eat you alive, if that’s of concern.” The middle aged man is quick to respond, not missing a single beat, as if he could possibly read his mind. The older man’s voice is solid, and his eyes rather sincere, so Harry chooses to be persuaded and allow his chest to deflate for a short-lived moment.

Harry blinks in confusion as Liam stops walking abruptly, suddenly pawing around the front pockets of his messenger bag. “Hold on a sec’, _Har_.”  He mumbles, directed to him, and moves hastily as he pulls out a silver pair of keys, Harry gawks at the number of keys hanging from the single, clearly tortured, loop- He can’t have the responsibility of carrying around one hundred keys, for one hundred different classrooms (It was probably less than 10, but Harry is in a state of perpetual [panic, so he doesn’t bother with counting).

 _Har_ , he repeats to himself, oddly enough, like a broken record, and feels quite giddy simply by the repetitive sound of it at the back of his head. 

He feels as if Liam has already welcomed him with widely spread arms, like they were a small group to which he belonged into; The school’s staff.

“Smile _bright_ \- and _big_ , yeah?” Is the last thing he clearly listens before his eyes are averted to the key he stubbornly seems to struggle with as he attempts to unlock the door. Harry’s throat is clogged and he almost feels like running off to a complete different direction, hopefully wander into an odd parallel universe where he won’t have to smile _bright_ , and _big_ and forcefully set his anxiety issues aside at the widely open door. 

For a short moment he freezes right at the spot, exposed ankles chained to the thin doorway’s frame as Liam eases his way past it, like he knows where he sets his foot onto, like the back of his palm (well, he does). He chooses to focus on how the middle-aged man is fiddling through a large variety of colorful folders which he was tightly tucked beneath his armpit- Harry doesn’t look like that, he doesn’t look like he belongs in there, as soon as he warily eyes the environment. Harry clearly doesn’t fit the stereotype and sadness, sets lowly into his churning stomach-

“Hello,” Chirps happily a voice in the distance, accent thick and the slightest bit slurred due to the fact that everybody in here is barely awake, cue the five times Harry pressed snooze just this morning. Yet, he flushes with embarrassment, shaking his tense figure past the haze of self-disappointment, as he shyly shuffles inside the small room, dreary red backpack loosely slinging onto his firm chest and he clutches onto the rough fabric while his lips, bitten-raw, and chapped, curl in a wide grin- Not as forced as he had counted for.

“Hello!” He calls to the few people, and looks around rather curiously. He soon looses count of the single balding patches he counts on his digits, yet, it’s probably just, _five_ , or _six_ of them there; a few are comfortably seated behind their hardwood desks, and the sight of their utterly calm, seemingly blank expressions, framed by a concerning amount of stacked-up textbooks, and graded papers, makes Harry chew the inside of his cheek in fear. A few others are effortlessly starting short conversation with each other.

They pay little, to no attention to Harry’s odd presence in the room. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class, sir- What is your name?” A stern voice standing closer than expected startles him and his eyes widen immediately at the sight of a ruthless-looking woman, dressed in a tight pencil skirt, and a plain button-up. She is looking at him with impatience, the two boldly drawn lines resembling eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Oh, no- No! Ruth, this is Harry- _Styles_. The new music teacher,” Liam is quick to rush into the conversation as Harry stares at both of them, clearly dumbfounded.

“ _Harry_.- Harry _Styles_. Nice to meet you,” He rushes to lunge his hand forward, and the old lady seems to smile at him, kind and rather warm as she mumbles a calm _hello_ in return, patting Liam lightly on the back and shuffling back to her assigned desk. 

“Let’s introduce you to everybody, yeah?” The middle-aged man flashes Harry a reassuring grin and pulls him tentatively under his motherly-like wing, guiding him around the surprisingly half-circle of occupied desks. 

All he can do is grin loosely at the elderly women, and then smile a bit tighter at the youngest ones. He hastily moves on to shake a few hands, maintaining a firm grasp around the older men’s calloused hands, and by the way they tightly grasp at his hunched-up shoulders makes something uncomfortably claw at his all-too sensitive skin, the well-expected sensation of blooming fear stirring up right behind his grin-stretched lips and crinkled eyes. 

“Darlin’, would you like a-”

 _Then_ a thudding noise, which nearly manages to crack his facade of pure calmness into small pieces, echoes across the small room, abruptly silencing the incoherent murmurs and the various chatters hanging into the air, in a matter of seconds, then catching everybody’s attention with minimum effort- Harry wonders for a solid second if the man which he then lays eyes on has made a routine out of slamming the door obnoxiously just for the sake of getting each pair of annoyed eyes his way.

“Good morning to you, too!” He then makes a show out of chirping simply cheerfully at the audience which he seemed quite pleased to have. Melodic the way it rung across Harry’s reflexively-curved spine, clearly over-dramatic, surprisingly pitched, and polished with an excessive amount of the abhorrent type of _poshness_ he dreaded as he paced down the dampness-patched pavements of Britain.

Looking at the man directly in the eyes felt quite like a mistake at that fragile moment; The foreign sensation of adrenaline lashing onto him like a whip, relentless and snapping him past his trance of obnoxious anxiety. It felt quite like that one time he smoked a tad from Zayn’s stash and then proceeded to listen to Beethoven’s fifth symphony, in fast-forward.

The sincere grin that he didn’t hesitate to flash in return felt rather private, _  
_

_Maybe like exactly like the opening cords to Brown Sugar, something awfully expected, yet manages to catch you unprepared each time. Strong, and a completely out-of-body experience- Bless Keith Richards,_ Harry is quick to think and feels his fingers twitch once a reflexive grin stretches across his lips, as well.

“Someone got in trouble, I see?” His voice, once more, breaks the silence as he allows his navy blue cardigan to slip off his arms, revealing an off-cream and slightly worn jumper which only made him think ‘Oh, how teacher-y of him.’, _which only made_ his foolish of a grin widen.

“Oh, no, Louis- That’s _the new teacher._ Don’t let the looks fool you.” Liam laughs at how everyone can’t quite see a teacher out of Harry’s baby-fat-filled, flustered cheeks, and the strands of stray curls, falling tangled into his face. Harry can’t keep his eyes off _Louis_.

Louis, _Louis_ , Louis! He maniacally repeats to himself the name, awestruck and slight dazed by the beauty standing incredibly close for the sake of his existing personal bubble.

There is a freckle, _there_ , and _there_ \- and, _oh_ , _there_ , as well. And, Harry can’t quite exaggerate when his hands fidget against the rough denim of his jeans, for a pencil and a blank piece of paper to write this man a hundred incredibly-sappy songs (He could easily settle for the coffee-stained load of tissues right beneath Mrs. Patchers’ heavy mug).

“Oh, _really now_?” He asks, Sapphire-like eyes blown wide in mock shock, Harry nods curtly in response, tongue seemingly tied and grin so tightly stretched across his flushing face, it _hurts_.

“I’m Harry- I teach- _I’ll be_ teaching music.” He states hurriedly and manages to tame his bewildered excitement, giddy smile slipping carefully off his pained face.

“So, you know about music?” Louis cleverly rushes to question after a moment a tad too long, and it’s not as superficial and shallow as he makes it, probably _purposely_ , sound. With the raise of his thin eyebrow, and the slightest pull at the corner of his delicate lips immediately informs Harry that he will be tested- Maybe not _now_ , but he will be tested.

_Brown Sugar, how come you taste so good._

“Yeah- You mean, theory-wise, or?-”

“Saturday, August 16- _Woodstock_. 2 PM, the 3rd of the day, hectically hot- _Who was it that performed_?” 

Louis blurts out, as if his rushed words were preciously well-rehearsed, hands coming to clasp together right in front of him as he rocks from side, to side. Harry feels weak and like ripping his diploma into shreds. Louis’ eyes amused and glittering in an odd way gazing upon Harry’s face, expectantly.

He feels like either breaking down in tears, or simply falling onto Louis’ firm chest, and dramatically yelling out-loud ‘Take me!’.

Too much.

“I- Uh, that’s…”

Liam cackles loudly next to them, clearly enjoying being the spectator in this and _Harry_ , instead of reflexively shrinking into his carapace, he feels the vibrant red he has grown familiar to crawling onto the length of his neck, and plump cheeks, _because_ Louis’ face breaks into the mellow-est grin, bright eyes sincere, and the chuckle that makes his head tip back is like the first ray of sunlight peeking past his velvet red curtains.

“Just fooling around, _mate_ \- Don’t take Lou too seriously. He probably doesn’t know either.” Liam, then, disappears with a light pat on his shoulder, muttering a mainly playful ‘Prick,’ under his breath.

“‘Course _I_ know. But _music student_ over here doesn’t.” Louis hums, clearly pleased, yet, Harry can see through it with barely a click of his fingers. It isn’t _mockery_ , it isn’t _mean_ , or _doubting_ towards his diploma and the sweat he has shed over the expensive load of textbooks.

Then, he has disappeared, with a subtle strut of his hips and his step making the solid ground shake.

Harry watches after him for a few more seconds, embarrassingly enough.

-

It was _Santana_ , Harry finds out a few dreadful hours later, seated on the large leather chair- The Teacher’s chair, which is dressed in a the squiky kind of brown, worn leather. Harry isn't quite aware of when the entire etiquette of teachers' seats being necessarily dressed with the dull brown leather that he found absolutely _banal._ What if Harry, a respected member of the school's staff demanded that his arse is seated on something more _polka dot_ , or _stripes-_ stripes are _wonderful_ and definitely fashionable. Anything is potentially better than the uncomfortable and shredded piece of leather; _additionally!_ It makes the unhealthily pale underside of his knees sweat disgustingly during the few of weeks following summer break, and that's-

Harry wants to dissolve. He seems to be capable of discussing _any possible topic_ (see; deliberate arse-on-leather discussions) than focusing on the dreaded reality.

He reads through the _stupid_ Wikipedia article while rubbing a hand forcefully over his creased forehead, the ringing of the bell simply a dull noise at the back of his head, as he groans lowly in frustration- And, yeah, it’s a _stupid_ article because Harry hadn’t read it when it was _necessary_.

He sets his phone aside carefully, swallowing down a noise of protest once the very first student enters the small classroom- brown hair, predictably pale complexion, crooked teeth -, a few others following closely as they seem entirely too caught up in their silly, lighthearted chattering to notice his presence in the classroom.

The room is _small_ , _cozy_ in an odd kind of way, which feels familiar to him; maybe, due to the fact that it hasn’t been quite an entire decade since he was studying in high school, himself. Or, most likely, the off-cream painted walls that are beautifully decorated with pieces of the student’s artworks, the load of framed pictures taken at the many of the school’s events; the kids in them all smile bright and genuine, a variety of faces which differ so incredibly much from one another. The sight almost easing Harry out of his state of continuous anxiety.

And he remembers the reason why he was seated there, behind the large desk which made him feel ten times smaller than he actually was, and on the hardwood chair that creaked with the slightest- _Harry loves kids_. He loves their attitude towards music, and the energy they effortlessly seem to radiate, like pure sunlight, their capability to remain absolutely untouchable is something worth of every deeply depressed adult's envy. They put, simply, so much effort into their singing, wonderful when it's off-key and slightly scratchy. Emotions seeping from every edge.

Harry was a kid, himself, after all.

He calmly watches once they have all settled down and carefully skims out of the tight fit, between the chair and wide desk, stepping solidly onto the patterned, tiled floor.

“Hello, kids-”

“You’re the new teacher, _right_?!” Harry grins wide at the excitement of a student sitting in the second row; hair wild, dyed a vibrant green that could catch a mole's eye- And, yet, he can already feel the skimming gaze of the rowdy girls sitting right in front of him. 

“Yeah- I’m Harry. You can call me Mr. Styles. Or, just Harry, _y’know,_ ” Harry casually states- He’s not that old to be called _Mr. Styles_ , or _sir_ ; a shiver running up his spine as he considers it for a mere minute.

Whispered, incoherent words float across the musty air as he attempts not to think anything bad of them. The students seem to lack the need to make snarly and sly comments, and it feels like contentment.

“Now, I want to know _all_ of your names- I’m _old_ , and _horrible_ at memorizing, but bear with me, _yeah?_ ” He adds, in a rather playful manner. There are a few hushed, high-pitched chuckles coming from the back of the classroom, they don’t sound particularly like plain mockery, he thinks and smiles small to himself.

Harry writes his name on the board with a chopped piece of pink chalk which he had blindly picked up. “, and what kind of music you like to listen to, please- That’s a vital piece of information.” Students immediately raising their hands, excitedly _,_ at the sound of that. _  
_

The next forty minutes pass almost effortlessly as _Orpheus_ talks about the vast collection of expensive, iconic vinyls his father owns, _Safaa_ proudly informs Harry about the R’n’B mix-tape that her older brother has asked her to collaborate on. Then, there is _Andrew_ , and _Jess_ telling him about their mutual love for indie, underground, 80′s bands.

Harry is listening to all of them with wide eyes, genuine interest, and paying close attention to each of the words flying past their lips.

_It is going to be alright. Just fine._

_-  
_

“Did you know that Santana had sung at Woodstock?- The music festival.” Harry, just a handful of hours later breaks the silence between him, and Zayn, as they hurriedly munch over a plastic container of lukewarm Ramen noodles.

His flatmate stops chewing immediately, long, dripping strands of noodles poking past his pursed lips, as he cocks a questioning eyebrow. Harry coughs, and grabs a sliced piece of bread, tossing a chunk into his mouth as he repeats, hesitantly, “Santana was at Woodstock, he had performed there.” 

“Was this the trivial fact of the day, or-?” 

“’Found it _cool_. Santana is a _cool_ dude.”

Zayn pauses for a long moment, once he realizes that there are still droplets of soup dripping down his chin, catching at the terribly patchy stubble he seems incapable of maintaing even. “Did anything happen at school today? You told me everything went a’ight.” Voice solid, yet his eyes wide with growing concern.

“No, _no_!” He dismisses his concern hastily. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah-”

“You know that I can see through that fucking-”

“Shut up. _I’ll move out_ the next time you-” As Harry looks up from the drenched noodles wrapped around his plastic fork, the mere sight of plain intolerance painted shamelessly across Zayn’s face makes his lips to immediately fall shut. “I met a _guy_ , stop giving me that look, I _swear_.”

“ _Bingo_.” The older man talks muffled over a mouthful of lukewarm brunch and he doesn’t behave obnoxiously, and loud, even if Harry is fully aware of the fact that he has caught up on what exactly his statement was supposed to mean. 

   (Because he met _Louis_ , out of all the men that he could have potentially met, and remarkably, when _Louis_ smiles the actual sun shines from right in between his teeth- No poetic exaggeration implied. The entirety of Milky Way must be laying across his _snarly_ tongue - _and_ Harry’s heart is thudding _and_ he is more than willing to read every single Wikipedia article so that he won’t have to embarrass himself in front of the miracle that is _Louis_.)

He wrinkles his nose in displease, in response. A red hue is vibrating from his cheeks and it gives him away, effortlessly.

Zayn is good friend, a quiet and peaceful man, so with a short moment of his eyebrows kitting stubbornly and his forehead creasing, he has left the kitchen wordlessly, the fading padding of his bare feet across the hardwood floor cuing Harry’s long exhale of air as he slumps back on his chair, it _creaks_ at the dead weight and he feels _hopeless_.

-

Living with Zayn was, for the biggest part, _easy enough_. And that being the only way possible to fit the experience in words.

The man that had just turned 30 a few handfuls of months ago- _maybe 31_ , _Harry can’t quite recall_ -and their relationship was rather odd, rather strange to him, yet something he didn’t bother to think too much about. 

_Do all 25-year-old’s live so closely to rugged-looking men that are bitterly experiencing the very early stages of middle-life crisis?_ Sometimes Harry debates with uncertainty, laid sleepless across his half-made bed, steel-calloused knuckles pressing along the pudgy fat gathering around navel, and constantly huffing in frustration.

Harry is _25_. That’s enough handfuls of years for the hidden concern of prominent laugh lines appearing from laughing genuine a bit too much, blooms. Yet, he feels hesitant when he comes across the question ‘ _Are you happy with what you have achieved so far, Harry?_ ’, and most importantly, the knot around his throat which tightens each time he questions himself about the exact same thing, in the oddest moments.

And looking at Zayn only reminds himself of that quite specific question.

The older man works for a local newspaper, _one of the many_ , _one_ that Harry can barely name even on his _very_ good days. He writes long, admittedly interesting articles on issues that definitely don’t concern the average housewives of Chesire, and maybe that’s what he is aiming for. His cooking is absolute shit, yet he likes to perch up occasionally, and seat himself right next to the stove while Harry cooks, chat to him so it won’t feel as melancholic. 

Harry appreciates the man, fully aware of the fact that they aren’t quite what you could describe as _best friends_ , but they are getting there- Maybe. _One day._

Zayn wears tight jeans, the fabric around his knobby knees is always, characteristically, acid-washed and worn, as he is relentless to the cheap denim. His body is very thin, yet solid, and the strength only his two fists carry is slightly odd if you take in account the slimness of his biceps. You can always see the prominent bulge at the back of his jeans, the defined outline of a folded pocket knife pushed into the large pocket- it never fails to make the back of Harry’s knees dampen.

Zayn is cool, though, _interesting_ , a great company; better than a dog, worst than an aging female cat, going through menopause.

And that’s enough to ask for, for now.

-

“…-That’s why there are, yet, _countless_ genres of music, out there,” Harry enthusiastically talks, loud and yet he hasn’t completely crawled out of his shell. The large chalk board reads ‘Music and Genres.’, a small, horribly-drawn smiley face can be seen in the far corner, just _because_.

“You probably can’t even properly count them- If you take in account that each genre is divided into other sub-genres, and then those are divided as well. It’s really an endless process,” He draws a thin, uneven line, dividing music in five basic genres, and nearly shattering the short piece of chalk, in the process- in the heat of the moment. Swiftly, then, he turns around, meeting the curious eyes of the peaceful class and the satisfaction coils deep in his chest.

“That’s beautiful,” A high-pitched voice states in a hushed tone and Harry nods hastily, grin wide on his face as the class seems to share his enthusiasm on the variety that the music industry offers.

The sound of knuckles knocking lightly, yet solidly, against the metallic door would have caught his attention immediately, any other day, yet he seems to be entirely too engrossed by structuring his monologue, that he simply twists around on his feet- in a choreographic way, _almost_.

“To add my two cents to this, I find it weird when people choose to categorize music, also; _Queen_ are considered to be rock, _by the industry_. Glam rock for the biggest part. But, why reject the option of it being…Death metal, let’s say!” He hums and keeps dividing music genres in other, smaller, and less known categories, handwriting sloppy, yet neat enough to distinguish the letters. “ _Why are we so keen on putting music in boxes?_ -” The younger man picks up a pale blue piece of chalk to underline a couple of words. “ _Why can’t we have a different attitude- A more open-minded one, towards something so stunning- and…and_ -”

“Mr. Styles, uh,” It snaps him out of his haze, fast. One of the students in the very front line of desks coughs lightly and Harry’s eyes widen, plump cheeks flushing even though he isn’t quite aware of what he has done wrong. The small piece of chalk is shattered violently in his fist, _nearly_ , as he turns around hesitantly to face the issue- (The issue being a miniature-sized man that offered him cold, sweetened milk for the large mug of steaming, black coffee that Liam had passed him as soon as he had entered the office this morning. Then, proceeded to circle a devious hand around his tense bicep, and lean in to mumble; ‘ _Plain black coffee is for the sleepless and the miserable- Are you miserable, perhaps, Harry?_ ’

       Harry’s mouth dried, visibly, and he simply shook his head in response- He is sad, and a bit tired, from time to time, but never miserable- then proceeded to pour a small bit of cold milk in his rim-filled mug, careless for the droplets of hot coffee that dripped down on both the tiled floor and the leather of his worn shoes.          

       When he, then, pointed out that Louis’ mug was seeping tar-looking coffee, a rather gross shade of black and steaming concernedly much, he plainly flashed him a tight smile and shrugged)

“Great lesson, Mr. Styles- I might join your class some time,” He applauded leisurely, a sly grin framed perfectly by a well-kept five o’clock shadow that made Harry dig his blunt nails into the flesh of his palms. 

He pushed both hands into the pockets of his burgundy trousers and leaned against the tall door frame, shoulders broad, _strong_ , and stretching the thin fabric of his pressed, dreary gray button-up. The skin-clawing need to undress him and scrape his teeth barely along the smooth skin, straddle him and-

The slightly obnoxious giggling of the girls sitting in the front line caught his attention as he shifted on his feet, attempting to catch up on the joke.

“We would love to have you , Mr. Tomlinson.” One of them hummed in delight, flirty and devilish as she leaned on her shoulders. The grin full of mischief that stretched across her lip-gloss-coated lips called for detention, _in Harry’s opinion.  
_

“Of course, _Francesca_. If Mr. Styles is alright with that too.”  He spoke, tone playful and the loud load of high-pitched giggles that seemed to follow like punctuation mark each of the older man’s sentences was driving Harry insane, clearly.

“I would love to. But I’m not sure you would understand-” Harry knew he had just pulled a dirty card, _dirty and full of bollocks_. He knew that he wasn’t behaving shyly, and quite like the person to which Louis had found Harry to be the first time they met ( _barely a week ago_ ). But, he liked being challenged. And, what he liked more was the look of pure mock-surprise that immediately crossed the other teacher’s face.

“Me, and the kids are fast learners, as you can see,” He puts down the small piece of chalk and almost effortlessly, smiles at him small, yet sweetly, not matching the playful character of his words. “And I’m not quite sure that you would catch up- It’s never nice to feel alienated from the classroom, isn’t it?” The class laughs loudly and he cocks an eyebrow, punctuating his sentence.

“Be careful- I’ll send you to the principal’s office. kid.” Each of the students seem clearly amused at the scene unfolding right there, guilt-free as they enjoy the lack of lesson happening. Yet, Harry flushes embarrassingly much at Louis’ stern tone, even if he knows it’s clearly all _good ol’ banter._

“But, _anyway_ -” He stops short only to make a show out of shooting Harry a death glare. The younger man grinning sheepishly in response. “I’m here to remind you kids that till this Friday you can still bring clothes, blankets, or scarves, gloves and hats for our package to UNICEF. Just a quick reminder- Every single thing that we don’t need anymore might be useful and necessary to somebody else.”

And with a slight wave he has exited the classroom, closing the door behind him softly and nearly pulling a loud, disgusting sob out of Harry.

He goes on with his lesson, knees trembling and palms slightly damp.

-

The continuous chattering of the group of girls irks him a whole lot, _enough_ to cue the blossoming of the need to toss shattered chalk on their heat-damaged hair.

His jealousy has became a whole separate voice at the back of his head, independent and clearly unnecessary in every way possible. _  
_

_They are talking obscenely about their teacher, about Mr. Tomlinson, and that’s inappropriate_ , his thoughts speak in Mrs. Deggings voice; a 63-year-old lady that teaches Chemistry and constantly complains about her cats peeing on her _expensive_ carpets (’ _Darling, they cost more than your entire student debt!_ ’) and how she hasn’t retired yet.

He decides that he really needs to simply stop waltzing around the daydream of Louis and whatever that might include as the students excitedly bounce their way out of the small classroom, behaving like actual chimpanzees as they grip onto each other’s clothes, shoving and pushing with elbows, and _feet_ , and _knees_ , _carelessly_ , fighting to jog past the door frame faster than the other bunch.

He grabs his backpack, which he had hidden under the desk at all cost- _You’re a grown man, Harry! It’s time to invest in something more decent. This is what students carry around, not grown men,_ he hears his step-father’s voice as he carefully pulls the strap of it, huffing in fatigue.  

The door makes an odd noise as he locks it, making him smile for no apparent reason. And then, he is too pacing down the corridor, students carefully shuffle past him, concerned about the possibility of brushing shoulders with him getting them straight to the principal’s office.

The parking lot is, for the biggest part, a quiet space. Only a few students seem to actually own their own vehicles and that’s a bit of a surprise to Harry.

“Hello?” His phone is firmly pressed between his shoulder and ear as he attempts to fish for his car keys in his coat. ‘ _Darling!_ ’ His mother calls excitedly from the other end of the line, and he immediately smiles to the mere sound of the woman’s voice. The corners of his eyes creasing as it seems to be a bit too genuine. 

“Hey!” The greeting is almost sung, a blooming sort of happiness prominent in his voice as he finally manages to unlock the vehicle, at the same time.

‘ _Are you in class, sweetheart?_ ’ She carefully asks and he shakes his head instantly, “No, no!” He rushes to say once it’s clear that she can’t probably see him, at the moment. ‘ _Oh, great_.’ She almost cheers in relief and Harry can’t quite jump in the vehicle yet, the sound of somebody’s leisure walking making his head nearly spin inhumanly. 

Louis is there, again. And his mother is talking to him about expensive Christmas presents, blabbering effortlessly and seemingly careless of her son’s odd silence and lack of reaction, for that matter. 

Their eyes meet, Louis smiles, wide and, _hopefully,_ genuine, once Harry had noticed his presence. 

‘ _\- It’s unbelievable that Des would agree to that, I am enraged, Harry! He clearly knows Nana is allergic to cinnamon, yet he-_ ’ He stands next to him with such an ease, like his throat isn’t entirely as clogged as Harry’s is at the moment. 

He stands _tall_ ( _not really, he snickers_ ) and disgustingly proud of how he seems to always catch everybody’s attention once entering a room- Harry hates it furiously, but also can’t quite state that it’s unreasonable. The man is not simply bright, but rather blinding as he strikes repeatedly, like a lightning bolting straight onto him- No mercy, whatsoever.

Harry feels that Louis could be described as untouchable, _you can’t touch a lighting, can’t you? Right?- It would kill you, electrocute you to your death._ He nearly blurts out to his mother, who is still relentless and unaware of the odd silence. 

“ _Mother issues?_ ” He asks with a tilt of his head and he immediately confirms his theory. Louis, who stood there clad in jeans that glued to the solidity of his toned thighs like a second skin, and a worn, wrinkled t-shirt that seems to be borrowed rather than of his own, is untouchable.

Harry nods, in an awe, looking like a complete fool, honestly. ‘ _Harry?- Sweetheart. Are you listening?_ ’ Anne seems to be light-hearted about her son not sparing a single cent when it comes to her endless, holiday-related anxiety.  

“Yes! Yes, mum. I’ll call you once I’ve dropped off at _Zayn’s_ , yeah? Pinky promise.” He hurries out, eyes pooling with distress as they glue onto Louis’ patient presence. ‘ _Make sure you won’t forget, young man- You are the only one I trust with gift shopping, you know that._ ’

“Yeah, I won’t, ‘pinky promised. Take care.” Harry hurries to end the call, scared of Louis growing impatient and pacing away with a huff of frustration.

They look at each other, in complete silence and Harry doesn’t how if it’s uncomfortable, or not.

“ _Women are like modern paintings. You can’t enjoy them if you try to understand them._ ” Harry spoke lowly in a horrible attempt to mimic something else, huffing out a laugh once a look of confusion, and slight endearment crossed Louis’ features, a thin eyebrow rosing in question at the reference he didn’t quite catch.

“Freddie Mercury had said that- I thought you would know. You had gave me the impression that you knew your trivial facts.” Harry challenged, and hesitantly closed the door of the parked vehicle, hopeful of this particular conversation lasting- Louis didn’t protest as his eyes curiously followed the swift movement of his hand

“Sue me, Harold, but, in my _very_ humble opinion, men contribute to this world’s progress of evolution by being just big ol’ bags of semen.” A chuckle, soft, and tucked beneath his tongue punctuate his phrase, and Harry stares at him whilst sinking in a state of complete fascination with this man’s brain.

Louis grinned in utter pride, fully aware of how radical his confident words sounded once they reached other people’s ears. “Or- In words less offensive for the masculine bunch, _I measure the progress of a community by the degree of progress which women have achieved._ ”

“ _Oh-_ That’s…I haven’t heard _that_ before. _”_

“Of course you haven’t, Harry. I would be surprised if you had.”

Harry nods curtly to that, and at the back of his head, he repeats the words Louis had said, continuously, as if that would ease the process of comprehension.

“Are you _offended_ , Harry?” His name rolls around Louis’ tongue, with an odd fullness punctuating each letter, and his distinguishable accent polishing it unfairly too prettily for such a plain name that he was given. The way each sentence is leisurely stroked across his tongue like the first swipe along an untouched lolly makes his heart combust, and stutter each time- Ever so slowly developing a quite unhealthy habit of reacting physically to whatever slips past his bitter-raw lips.

“No- We are mature, men. It would be a bit childish to fight over an opinion that differs mine, wouldn’t it?” He responds shyly, encouraged by the way Louis seems to listen to him intently, each fiber of his body turned to face him completely. 

“So, …not much of a ladies’ man, huh?” Harry’s eyes widen instantly, plump cheeks, radiating a vibrant red hue, bunching up in a hesitant grin. His question seems to root him in place, tickling like the shiver of a cold across his spine.

“Love to listen to tracks written about them. Horrible at approaching them…” His eyes shift from Louis’ face, to his boot-clad feet, instinctively. “…That’s why I’ve always been more fond of men, after all.”

Harry had learned agonizingly slow, with sweat, blood, nails, and teeth, to take pride in his sexuality, but once he reluctantly glanced up to catch a glimpse of Louis’ eyes widening in surprise, he contemplated the odds of shoving himself back in the closet for at least a decade.

The moment drags ever so slowly before Louis is hesitantly cracking the heavy silence reeking the atmosphere. “That’s- That’s _awesome_ , Harry. ‘Very proud.” His lips are pursed stubbornly along his teeth as he offers him a tight-lipped grin, his stomach churns and discomfort starts to coil at the very bottom as he seems to be on the verge of either spitting snarly insults, or sprinting away.

“Yeah- _Uh_ , sorry if I…if I made you uncomfortable. I know it was a very personal detail and…and you probably didn’t want to know-” He is abruptly cut off by the other teacher, rather rudely, shushing him. He spoke loudly over his own words and Harry’s entire figure jerked up in newfound fear. 

“No, absolutely no!” His eyes widen as he responds, his words spoken obnoxiously, Harry’s boot-clad feet reflexively taking a short step back. 

Louis knits his thin eyebrows, widens his eyes entirely too big and Harry can immediately see though the theatric character of. The younger man had seen this type of well-put facade one too many times in the past to know how to detect it from a handful of miles away.

“- But, anyway. _Listen_ , I have some errands to run. _We’ll talk._ ” 

Louis scurries away on his feet, far from Harry’s rooted figure, like he has just seen the monster under his childhood bed, right then and there.

   ( _Harry_ can’t help but feel like he resembles the actual monster beneath every toddler's bed, himself. He hesitantly tilts his head to the side, the slightest bit, and glances at the faint reflection of his paling face across the window of his car. _Harry_  wonders for a moment if it’s his fault, if it’s him after all who is to blame in such unfortunate situations. _Harry_ swallows almost audibly at the fading sound of Louis’ padding away, in the distance. _His_ soul almost feels abused at the moment- old, stitched up wounds hurting and pulsing after a long period of plain peace. _Harry_ feels rather helpless, body in a state of limpness and before he is aware of it, his mind has surrendered)

Harry simply remains rooted to the ground and watches (-A part of him has seen this episode, in the past, and there is a crippling fear of a solid fist coming straight to his guts. Harry is scared, Harry doesn’t admit that to himself), broad shoulders slumped down in sadness as he hold a fistful of his wrinkled button-up so tightly clasped between his fingers that it hurts him. 

The fatigue of the day still weight down his bones and he makes no move to stop Louis, to plead for him to come back and talk.

“Bye.” He calls quietly, the crack of his hushed voice punctuating the word, and soon his eyes have begun to sting, as well.


End file.
